


Looking Like Death

by beckettemory



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Appendicitis, Bitty has good friends, Coming Out, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know how hospitals work, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Phobias, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 02:28:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7826677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beckettemory/pseuds/beckettemory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bitty isn't feeling like himself. He hasn't baked in three days. It's probably just the flu. Probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just the Flu

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for nausea/vomiting, illness, doctors, hospitals, and mentions of death, needles, blood, and food in this chapter 
> 
> please let me know if you'd like me to add any warnings I've forgotten

Bitty hadn't baked in almost three days. His teammates were growing concerned, and on Thursday around lunchtime the elder defensemen confronted him about it.

“Bits, I respect you and your needs and everything,” Ransom had begun, steepling his fingers together at the kitchen table.

“But midterms are coming up and some pie or cookies would help us out tremendously,” Holster finished for him, clapping his hands down on Ransom’s shoulders to interrupt him.

Rans closed his eyes. “I was going to put it more delicately than that, but essentially, yeah.”

Bitty rolled his eyes from where he leaned backwards against the counter, arms crossed.

“I have midterms too, y’know. If y'all want some pie or cookies, you can make them yourself. I'll lend you my recipe, even. But I don't have time to make scones and pies and whatever else anytime anyone wants ‘em.”

This was partially a lie. Bitty _didn't_ have the time to bake, but that had never stopped him before. No, he hadn't baked in several days because he just hadn't felt like it. He wasn't feeling like himself.

It wasn't just the baking, either. He’d fallen asleep before midnight twice in the last four days and around 1am the other two nights. When Chowder had suggested grabbing lunch at their favorite Chinese place yesterday, the thought had turned his stomach and he had said no. And he hadn't yet done any prep for his vlog this week, even though he needed to have it filmed, edited, and uploading in less than 48 hours so he could stick to his uploading schedule.

He’d survived nearly the entire team getting the flu untouched a few weeks ago, and chalked up his current situation to that. It would explain his queasiness and fatigue. Everything else was probably just midterm stress.

He'd never been a great student. In high school his focus had been on figure skating and later hockey. Academics had been his second priority, at least to him. He always assured his parents and teachers that academics was his top priority, but he was usually lying. He liked English and history, didn't really understand biology, barely understood chemistry, and loathed math with every fiber of his being. When he had to take electives he opted for speech and debate rather than foreign languages, and once he took a drama class, mostly to see whether the stereotype of gay men in theatre held up (it did; he had his first through sixth kisses with four different boys in his drama class that year, and had presumed all but one of them to be straight beforehand).

He was never a gifted student, that was for sure, but he still tried in all of his classes. He managed good enough grades to get into Samwell, at least, and that wasn't particularly easy.

This semester he'd had Jack hounding him to do his homework almost nightly and it had been helping some. He didn't have concrete results yet and wouldn't until the Monday after midterms, which were next week, but he figured he’d probably see better results than last year. Maybe pining for Jack had left him too distracted to study as much.

And Jack. Whatever his current weirdness was, it was affecting his relationship with Jack, too. Last night he’d snapped at him.

Jack: “ _I think Tater is onto us. Guy too. Today Guy said ‘maybe your secret person will come to the party Saturday._ ’”

Bitty: “ _so?_ ”

Jack: “' _Person!’ The other guys say ‘girlfriend’ and so did Guy until recently. Doesn't that sound like he knows?_ ”

Bitty: “ _I mean maybe_ ”

Jack: “ _I don't know what to do._ ”

Bitty: “ _you could tell him you're dating me_ ”

Jack: “ _You know I can't do that_.”

Bitty: “ _well I'm getting pretty fucking tired of being a secret_ ”

He'd felt bad immediately. He was telling the truth, too, which was almost worse. He'd meant to bring it up eventually, but it spilled out in a moment of annoyance, his cheeks and ears burning as he tapped out the reply without thinking and hit send.

Jack had been quiet for a long time.

Bitty had texted an apology after a minute or two, once he'd cooled down. Jack hadn’t responded. He'd sent several more. He'd tried calling and skyping him to apologize, his stomach lurching, but Jack hadn’t picked up either.

Finally, Jack had sent a single line.

Jack: “ _I know. I'm sorry. I'm working on it_.”

Bitty had apologized again profusely but Jack had stuck to his position until Bitty finally changed the subject. His history midterm was going to be brutal and could Jack help him study? It probably wasn't the best thing to change the subject to but it was also true and Jack was good at history and it was something other than apologies on both sides.

Now, Bitty’s attention was snapped out of the memory by the realization that Holster and Ransom were staring at him with concern.

“What?” he asked.

“You don't look so good,” Holster said. He still stood with his hands on Ransom’s shoulders.

“Huh?”

Ransom scooted back his chair, narrowly avoiding squishing Holster’s toes before he jumped back. Ransom walked over to Bitty where he still leaned against the counter and squinted at him. Bitty had at some point uncrossed his arms and rested his hands on the counter on either side, and when Ransom came over he crossed them again but noticed that this time it made his nausea, which had been pretty manageable, worse.

Ransom peered in his eyes and pressed the back of his hand against Bitty’s forehead, then cheek. He pulled one of his hands free and checked his pulse.

“You need to go to bed,” Ransom said. “You've got a fever and you're super pale, bro.”

Bitty scowled. “No I don't. If anything I have the flu. I'm fine.”

Rans dropped his hand and took a big step backwards. Several feet away, Holster took a step back, too.

Bitty rolled his eyes. “Grow up, y’all had it two weeks ago. You won't get sick again.”

“We're not taking any chances,” Holster said.

“Yeah, and whatever’s up with you is making you crabby and decidedly un-Bitty,” Ransom added.

Bitty was aware that he was acting grumpy, that he was probably sick, that he probably should go to bed, but his Hausmates pointing that out only made him want to stay up just to spite them. At this rate, he would probably never sleep again.

He shoved off the counter and walked as haughtily as his nausea would allow out of the kitchen.

“Y'all need to mind your own business,” he snapped on his way out.

At the landing on the second floor he passed Lardo coming out of her room.

“You alright, Bits?” she asked, and he grumbled a response as he slammed into his room.

Once his door was closed behind him, though, his annoyance drained out of him and he just felt… tired. And sad. He'd snapped at some of his best friends. They were just trying to help.

Then he remembered their plea for baked goods and his cheeks heated up again.

He sat on his bed and brought his knees to his chest, then put them down with a groan as his stomach lurched. He carefully lay down, trying to ignore his stomach’s protests. He pulled out his phone and texted Jack.

Bitty: “ _I think I'm getting sick. I just snapped at R &H _”

He didn't expect a text back soon; Jack should be in practice right about now.

Laying perfectly still, his stomach was calm. He pulled his covers over himself, wondering whether he actually had a fever or his room was just drafty. He distracted himself with some dumb games on his phone for a while—High School Story, Hollywood U, a dating sim Shitty had recommended—but felt his eyelids growing heavy. More than once he opened his eyes not remembering closing them, and after the third or fourth time he opened his eyes he put down his phone and pulled his comforter up to his chin. He was asleep in a minute.

Bitty woke up in possibly the worst way to wake up: he was about to vomit. He threw off his covers, barely registering that it was now completely dark out in his haste to get out of there. He tripped over his own feet and caught himself against the door, then threw it open and walked as quickly as possible to his bathroom, where he immediately doubled over the toilet, one forearm braced on the toilet seat.

Luckily, it was over soon. He hadn't been eating much in the last couple days.

When he caught his breath and could stand upright, he wiped the tears that had forced their way out, splashed his face with cold water, and rinsed out his mouth. Then, hearing his mother’s voice in his mind, he washed his hands. His stomach was still aching faintly. On his way out, he glanced at his reflection and stopped, stared.

He was pale. Even his lips were paler than usual. His bangs were sticking weakly to his forehead with a mixture of a cold sweat and the water from washing his face. His eyes looked sunken and hollow, and he was trembling faintly. He looked, in a word, like death.

It was frankly freaking him out, so he snapped off the light and walked shakily back to his room. He turned on a lamp so he wouldn't trip if he had to run to the bathroom again, and picked up his phone. It wasn’t terribly late, but he had slept for a long time. It was past dinnertime. The thought turned his stomach and he sat frozen for half a minute with his hand covering his mouth.

Jack had texted back while he was asleep.

Jack: “ _:( what kind of sick, cherie_?”

Bitty: “ _I don't know. Maybe the flu I dodged a few weeks ago. I just threw up and I look like a corpse_.”

Jack’s response was immediate.

Jack: “ _Oh no. Should I come up this weekend to take care of you? We have a game Saturday but I could come tomorrow and Sunday_.”

Bitty smiled weakly. This boy.

Bitty: “ _I don't think that'll be necessary. But I'll keep you posted_ . _Thanks, sweetheart_.”

He was still trembling weakly, even laying down, and his stomach was starting to hurt more. He knew that it was probably because it was empty, and he knew that he should drink something to keep from getting dehydrated, but the thought of getting out of bed, let alone making it downstairs and then back up, made him want to cry.

He stared at his phone, debating with himself, then swallowed his pride and texted Holster.

Bitty: _“I’m sorry I snapped at yall earlier. You were right, I am sick”_

Bitty: _“could you possibly bring me some gatorade”_

Holster: _“sure thing. Was that you i heard ralphing a few minutes ago?”_

Bitty grimaced. Great.

Bitty: _“guilty”_

Holster: _“sucks, man. What flavor?”_

Bitty hoped he was talking about the gatorade.

Bitty: _“blue”_

Holster didn’t text back, but Bitty heard footsteps on the wooden stairs to the attic, then across the hall, then down another set of wooden stairs.

Another minute and there was a knock on his door. Without waiting for an answer Holster pushed open the door and came in. He smiled warmly as he thunked down the bottle on Bitty’s bedside table.

“You know, blue isn’t technically a flavor,” he said as he bent over and felt Bitty’s forehead.

“Shut up, I’m sick,” Bitty whined.

“Well, Ransom is the biology one and he’s out on a run so I’ll be the doctor for now.” Holster spun around Bitty’s desk chair and sat stiffly, pulling his glasses down to the edge of his nose and miming a clipboard in his hands. Bitty smiled, fully aware that actually laughing would hurt. “What seems to be the problem?”

Before Bitty could open his mouth he was ticking off imaginary boxes on his imaginary clipboard.

“Well, you’re clearly nauseous, and you’ve got a fever. So what else? Sinus stuff?”

Bitty shook his head no.

“Sore throat?”

No.

“Headache?”

No.

“Achy?”

Bitty hesitated, deliberating, then nodded. He was achy, kind of, even though most of it was his stomach. Holster studied him.

“Stomachache?”

Bitty nodded, perhaps a bit too quickly, because Holster’s brow furrowed.

“Well, I’m no doctor, but I would keep an eye on you if I was,” he said, and Bitty rolled his eyes.

“Thanks, Holtzy.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re holding an imaginary clipboard,” Bitty pointed out.

Holster looked at his hands, then dropped the fake clipboard and stood.

“I’m not going to tell you what to do or anything, but we need you on the ice, so take care of yourself, okay?”

Bitty nodded and Holster left. Bitty eyed the gatorade on his bedside table warily, then cautiously opened it (with difficulty; his strength had been zapped alongside his appetite) and took a trial sip.

His stomach protested weakly at the first few drinks of gatorade, but it stayed down and he sighed gratefully.

He was bored, but didn’t quite want to sleep just yet. He got out his computer and clicked around on Netflix until he found a series he liked but wasn’t completely invested in. He slid down in bed and put his laptop on his bedside table, then hit play.

While watching he texted Jack, about the show and how he felt, brushing off his boyfriend’s concern every time. He _did_ want to be held and taken care of, but he was also fiercely stubborn and didn’t want to appear weak. He knew he was like that. Small Dog Syndrome and all. Jack, to his credit, didn’t push it too hard.

After a while Chowder came in, having heard that Bitty was sick, and wanting to help if he could. Bitty smiled and felt incredibly grateful for such a good son right up until Chowder brandished his glucose meter and a pack of lancets and said he wanted to check Bitty’s blood sugar to see if that was the problem.

“You know, because sometimes if your blood sugar is too high it can make you nauseous and have stomach pain,” Chowder explained, but Bitty was too busy staring at the box of needles to properly appreciate Chowder’s concern anymore.

He protested heavily, but Chowder persisted, and even said he’d do everything for him, he just had to hold still.

“I mean, I won’t if you absolutely insist, but I just want to make sure. Ketoacidosis is no fun, trust me,” Chowder said, now sitting next to Bitty on the edge of his bed.

Finally Bitty relinquished his finger, tears pricking in his eyes and hand trembling so hard Chowder had to hold his wrist steady as he held the lancet against his finger. When it snapped Bitty yelped and pulled his hand back, but Chowder grabbed it back long enough to get enough blood for the test, then patted Bitty’s arm soothingly and spoke softly about how it was over and he wouldn’t have to do it again. He really did have a good bedside manner, Bitty thought weakly as he tried not to panic. Needles and him… They were not friends.

When the meter beeped and showed a number that was apparently a little high but nothing dangerous, Chowder handed him his gatorade and left, calling a “feel better, Bitty!” over his shoulder. Bitty turned his show back on, still shaking, to try to distract himself.

It worked, and after a couple episodes Bitty felt his eyelids growing heavy. He texted Jack a goodnight and turned onto his side, then rolled back onto his back as his stomach seized up in pain. He kept the show on to lull him to sleep, and in a matter of minutes he was asleep.

He awoke several episodes later with bad stomach pain. He sat up with some difficulty, hand over his mouth just in case. When, a couple minutes later, the pain hadn’t let up but he wasn’t nauseous, he took a sip of the now-lukewarm gatorade and carefully lay back down.

He tried unsuccessfully to concentrate on the show, and finally gave up and turned it off. In the quiet of his dim bedroom he felt just a little pang of fear.

What if this wasn’t just the flu? What if it was something big, like cancer or appendicitis?

His mom was a nurse, but because of that he was pretty much useless when it came to medical matters; she’d always taken care of it for him, and taken care of _him_ when he was sick. He could nurse himself through a chest cold just fine, he’d had plenty of experience there. But anything beyond that was a huge mystery to him. He didn’t even have the experience of hanging out in the hospital she worked in when he was little; he’d always been terrified of doctors and needles and when he had to be in the hospital while she worked he stowed away in the doctors’ ready room, headphones on and video games in hand, hoping that he wouldn’t suddenly be taken ill and be surrounded by doctors even more closely.

Now, not sure why he was feeling so bad, he let himself be afraid for just a moment. Then he made a plan.

It was Thursday night. The campus clinic had fewer hours on weekends, so he promised himself that if he was still feeling bad Saturday night, he would go to the clinic on Sunday. And maybe he’d “accidentally” miss clinic hours and have to hold off until Monday. That plan would appease his Hausmates, his coaches, Jack, and his mother.

His mother. He’d have to call her. They weren’t as close when he was at school, and he hated being fussed over and chastised to wash his hands every five minutes when he was sick.

He made a deal with himself. If he was still feeling bad tomorrow night, Friday, he’d call her Saturday morning.

Tomorrow he would stay home from class, email his professors, rest, and try to feel better. He would call the coaches and let them know what was going on. And he would skype with Jack. Jack almost always made him feel better when he was down.

He felt a little better once he had a plan. Anxiety-wise, at least. His stomach still felt bruised, like he’d taken a volley of punches to the gut from the lax team.

He checked up on his games for a few minutes, then tried to get some sleep. It took a while to relax, and he couldn't toss and turn much without making his stomach protest, but finally he fell into a fitful sleep.

 

* * *

 

Bitty awoke some time later (it was light out, though he barely recognized that) by his stomach. Sometime in the night the pain had gone from bruising to stabbing, and was much worse besides.

He tried to take a deep breath to calm the fear that was threatening to overtake him. The breath hitched in his throat when the movement pulled at his abdomen and he let it out slowly.

He got out his phone to distract himself instead. It was still morning, but there was a text from Jack from around dawn.

Jack: _“Time for morning practice. Are you feeling better?”_

Bitty smiled weakly at his boyfriend’s concern.

Bitty: _“not really, but I don't want you to worry about it. go have fun being famous. I'll be alright.”_

He didn't really have the energy to do anything, but he figured that since he was awake he might as well email his professors. He got out his laptop and started composing an email he'd send to each of his professors.

 _“Dear ____,”_ he wrote,

_“I am in your ____ class. I am very sick with an unknown illness and won't be in class today. I'm very sorry, but I don't know whether I will be recovered by midterms, either. Please let me know if we can work something out._

_Thank you, and I apologize again,_

_Eric Bittle_   
_American Studies_ _  
Advisor: Alice Atley_ ”

Once he was satisfied, he sent it off to each professor after filling in their name and class.

He remembered that he'd need to call his coaches, too, but just the thought of making a phone call right now was exhausting by itself.

Well, he had his laptop out and inbox open.

He fired off emails to Hall and Murray, telling them that he'd be going to the clinic Sunday if he wasn't better soon, and asking to skip practices until he was better. He didn’t have the energy or clarity of mind to compose more professional-sounding emails like he usually could, so his emails today were, he felt, unforgivably casual and awkward.

Just sending off a handful of emails had tired him out, though he wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep. He put away his computer anyway, standing with difficulty and a lot of pain and shuffling over to his desk to put the laptop on the charger. While he was up, he decided to change into some clean pajamas, and a couple long, painful minutes later, he sat back down on his bed wearing one of Jack’s softest tshirts (stolen from his apartment) and his favorite pajama pants, the ones with baked goods against a blue-striped background.

He reckoned he still had a fever, based on the dampness of the shirt he’d just taken off and the fact that he was somehow both freezing and burning up without being bundled up in his comforter. He lay down carefully, pulling just one of his blankets over himself, and closed his eyes.

Without anything external to distract him, Bitty’s thoughts were easily shot down and dominated by the pain in his abdomen.

Surely, some witchcraft-practicing member of the lax team had finally had enough of his baking without sharing and Beyonce singalongs in the mornings with Ransom, and had put a curse on him, cursed him to feel a knife stabbing him in the stomach, just below and to the right of his bellybutton.

Two sides warred in his head.

One, the rational one, told him that whatever this was could be serious, and he should go to the clinic, if not the hospital, sooner than he had planned.

The other, and the one currently winning Bitty over, reminded him that the clinic meant nurses, who he was generally fine with unless they bore needles, but that the clinic could also mean doctors and hospitals and _lots_ of needles should the first side be right.

Okay. Time for a new plan.

If his stomach wasn’t better or was worse by 8 that night, he would go to the clinic the next morning, on Saturday. He would call his mother if and only if he was going to the clinic. No sense in worrying her over nothing, _if_ it was nothing.

Today he’d just try to sleep as much as he could to get over this.

A new plan made, he felt marginally more relaxed. As relaxed as he could be with an invisible lacrosse knife embedded in his torso, at least.

He knew he _should_ tell Jack about the full extent of his illness, but also knew that it would make him worry, and he had a game tomorrow, and beyond that, he’d probably insist Bitty go to the doctor.

Bitty also wouldn’t put it past him to drive up to Samwell and physically carry him to the clinic. The same was true of any one of his Hausmates, Lardo included. Or the rest of the team.

This realization should have been heartwarming, but it was instead isolating. He couldn’t tell any of them he was feeling so bad without the possibility of them taking him to the doctor.

Which he should do anyway, but he was too terrified.

He just wanted to be held until he felt better. Was that so much to ask?

A single tear leaked out of one eye and trailed down his temple and into his hair. He squeezed his eyes shut, not sure if he was crying because of the pain or because he was so damn lonely.

He let himself cry for a while. He felt bad for himself. He let the loneliness wash over him. He felt like he was being stabbed. He was scared and alone and in pain. Each grievance added to his tears.

He held Señor Bun tight to his chest and only reigned in his sobs when they pulled at his belly, not really caring if they were loud.

Terrifying, deadly diagnoses he’d heard of on tv and in books cycled through his head and fueled his fear. He probably had stomach cancer. He probably ruptured his spleen or his pancreas or something else equally necessary. He probably had an aortic aneurism, whatever the hell that was.

What if he died? What then?

What if he died still in the closet to most of the world, without telling _anyone_ that he and Jack were together? What if he died without getting over his fear of checking on the ice? What if he died without his own baking show or published cookbook? What if he died without seeing Jack one last time? What if he died without seeing his mama again?

He let himself cry, and when he was done crying, he let himself fall asleep, too tired to be kept awake by the lacrosse knife.

He woke up and fell back asleep several times, most of his awakenings due to pain, before he finally woke up late in the afternoon.

The first thing he registered, before opening his eyes, was that the pain in his stomach had somehow gotten worse. The knife in his abdomen was being twisted, it seemed. He grimaced and opened his eyes.

Lardo was sitting in his desk chair, feet up on his desk and reading a book, but when he accidentally let out a whimper she turned around to face him.

“Whoa, hey dude,” she said, scooting a little closer. “You look like shit.”

“Why are you here?” he asked, squinting at her and trying to concentrate.

“Rans popped his head in earlier to see how you were doing and saw you sleeping like, really badly, so we’ve been taking turns keeping an eye on you all afternoon,” she explained, or at least that’s what it sounded like she said. He wasn’t hearing very well.

He groaned and clutched at his stomach.

“Shit, man, are you okay?”

He shook his head weakly.

“Your stomach?” she asked. She came close and sat next to him on the bed. She felt his forehead and then swore under her breath. He pressed his palms to his eyes as if somehow it would block out the pain and groaned loudly.

“Dude you gotta go to the doctor, like, _now_ ,” Lardo said, and she started to get up, but he shot out a hand and grabbed her arm.

“No doctors,” he whimpered.

She easily shrugged off his hand and stood up.

“Bits, this is _serious_. I’m getting Rans and Holster.”

She left, and the part of Bitty’s mind that wasn’t dominated by the pain panicked. He’d been holding onto hope that he would just start feeling better on his own, even as scary diseases took over his mind, there had been that tiny hope. Now even that was gone.

He didn’t know whether it was the pain or the panic, but as the elder defensemen came into his room the edges of his vision were a bit fuzzy and he felt a bit light-headed.

“We can go in my car,” Holster said to Ransom and Lardo, talking over his shoulder as he studied Bitty, clearly trying to figure out the best way to get him down to the car.

Holster carefully lifted Bitty, bridal style, and carried him out of the room. Ransom walked in front to guide him and make sure Bitty’s head and feet didn’t hit any walls or doorways. They got to the top of the stairs before Bitty called out.

“Wait! My phone,” he cried, his voice hoarse and panicked.

“I’ve got it, dude, don’t worry,” Lardo said from behind Holster, and the group began slowly descending the stairs. “Also your wallet. Is your insurance card inside?”

Bitty’s mind was getting a little foggy, so he just furrowed his brow, trying to remember.

“It is,” Lardo answered her own question. Bitty leaned his head into Holster and focused on his even breathing and heartbeat.

“I don’t want to go,” Bitty whimpered into Holster’s shoulder, who frowned down at him.

“You’re going anyway,” he said firmly.

“We gotta get you checked out, brah,” Ransom added. “Better safe than sorry.”

Bitty just whimpered in reply. All the jostling was making his stomach hurt something fierce.

As they passed the living room on their way out to Holster’s car, Ransom grabbed a blanket and then opened the front door for the rest of them.

“You’re going to have to help me down these steps, Rans,” Holster said.

“Yep,” Ransom replied, then appeared back in front of them. He went down the porch steps and then held his hands out as if to catch Bitty if he fell. “Aaand, step down now. Step. Step. Last one. You’re good.”

Holster had a ten year old SUV that constantly smelled like sweat and dust, but it was a car, and he was one of only a handful of their teammates with a car. It was parked around the side of the Haus, and Ransom ran ahead to clear off the backseat. Bitty relished the feeling of the chilly October air on his feverish arms and face, but all too soon he was being laid down in the backseat of the SUV.

Ransom climbed in on the other side and sat with Bitty’s head in his lap. Lardo spread the blanket over him before getting in the passenger seat while Holster started the car.

“Shit, where are we going?” Holster asked as he backed out of the driveway.

“Bits? Preference for hospital?” Ransom asked, his hand absentmindedly smoothing Bitty’s hair.

Bitty shook his head, eyes squeezed shut and trying not to cry.

“St. Erasmus. It’s closest,” Lardo said.

“Yeah, well, ‘closest’ doesn’t mean ‘best’,” Holster shot back.

“In this case, it does,” Lardo replied, scrolling through something on her phone. “It’s at 16th and Lewis.”

Bitty hiccuped quietly and tried to control his breathing, hands fisted in the soft blanket over him.

He finally wasn't alone any more, he was getting taken care of and someone was stroking his hair, but he was also on his way to the hospital.

 _Be careful what you wish for_ , he thought sadly.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Ransom cooed above him, hand stilling on his head as Holster and Lardo quietly discussed their plan in the front seat. “You're gonna be alright, Bits. We've got you.”

Ransom’s free hand patted Bitty’s chest gently, and he grasped at his wrist tightly.

“I'm scared,” he whispered.

Rans was quiet for a second. “I know, Bits.”

Lardo turned around in her seat.

“Bits, do you have any allergies?”

He breathed out shakily. “Penicillin and shellfish,” he said.

“Good, thanks. Do you have any heart conditions?”

He shook his head no.

“Alright. Are you scared of needles or doctors?” she asked, though she sounded like she already knew the answer.

He nodded. “Both.”

“Isn't your mom a nurse?” Holster asked.

“She is,” Lardo said. “How long ago did your stomach start hurting?”

Bitty grimaced, the reminder of his pain bringing it back to the forefront of his mind.

“Yesterday at fiveish,” he said weakly.

Lardo paused. Bitty had his eyes closed and couldn't see what she was doing.

“Okay, dude, thanks.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm the manager, which means I'm _legally_ your parent, and I wanna be able to give info to the doctors if you pass out.” There was a hint of a joke in her voice, and it made Bitty calm some. If Lardo, ever-so-serious, was joking around, maybe the situation wasn't as dire as it seemed in his head.

“I don't think you're our parent at _all_ ,” Ransom muttered.

“Trust me, my best friend is a lawyer,” Lardo replied.

Holster pounded the steering wheel. “He is not!”

Bitty smiled weakly. If he _had_ to go to the hospital, he was glad it was these three taking him. He knew he could trust Lardo to make sure the doctors knew everything they needed to know about him, and he trusted Ransom and Holster to keep him safe and entertained. He just wished Jack was here. Jack could do all of those things, and kiss him besides.

Bitty couldn’t see out the window, but he felt the car make a turn and then slow down. Holster and Lardo were peering out the windshield.

“There,” Lardo said, pointing.

“I can carry him in if you park the car, Rans,” Holster said as they pulled up under an awning and stopped.

Bitty took a deep breath, or rather, tried to. His breath hitched in his chest and his grip tightened on Ransom’s wrist involuntarily. Ransom’s face was indecipherable as he looked at Bitty for a second.

“I can carry him in just fine,” Ransom replied. After the briefest hesitation, he cracked a smile. “You’re not the only strong one here, and he’s Itty Bitty.”

Holster shrugged and put the car in park. Lardo got out and helped Ransom pull Bitty, painfully, into a sitting position. From there, Ransom went around the other side and carefully picked him up.

As the three of them went in through the sliding glass doors while Holster parked the car, Ransom leaned in close.

“We got this, Bits. You look super sick, we probably won’t have to wait at all,” he whispered. “You just gotta act a little nauseous or something.”

“I _am_ nauseous. And in pain,” Bitty muttered back, the grimace on his face completely genuine.

As soon as they were within sight of the reception area, two nurses saw him and came over quickly.

“He’s been having really bad abdominal pain for about 24 hours,” Lardo explained.

“Alright, we’ve got a bed open. Right this way,” one nurse said, then led them into a large room with beds lining the walls and curtains between them. She left after pointing to an empty bed near a young boy getting a purple cast on his lower leg.

“What’s your name, honey?” the other nurse asked as Rans lowered him onto the bed. She was an older woman, with dark brown natural hair streaked with gray pulled into a ponytail.

“Eric Bittle,” Bitty said.

“Nice to meet you, Eric. I’m Tania. Who’s this with you?” She looked at Lardo and Ransom, clearly expecting them to introduce themselves.

“Larissa Duan. I’m his team’s manager and one of his roommates.”

“Justin Oluransi. Another one of his roommates and one of his teammates. We have one more coming, he’s parking right now.”

Bitty felt the world go a little fuzzy again and he closed his eyes and tried to breathe.

Tania began taking Bitty’s vitals. As she took his temperature she patted his shoulder gently.

“When he gets here I’m going to have two of you wait in the waiting room, alright?” When Rans and Lardo nodded, she smiled and then looked at the thermometer. “What sport do you play?”

“Hockey, ma’am,” Bitty replied, not too sick or afraid to forget to be polite. “At Samwell.”

“Oh, I love hockey,” she said. “Where are you from, Eric? That’s not an accent I hear much.”

“Madison, Georgia, ma’am.”

“Wow, you’re pretty far from home. Alright, hon, I need you to take deep breaths.” She listened to his heart and clipped an oxygen monitor onto his finger.

After she took his blood pressure and jotted everything down, chatting a little as she worked, she lowered the head of the bed until Bitty was laying almost completely flat.

“Where does it hurt?” Tania asked. Bitty gestured to the general area of the stabbing. “Okay, I need to push on your stomach a little to see what I can feel. Try not to tense up.”

Bitty reached out a hand, which Ransom took. As Tania firmly prodded at him, he squeezed his hand hard.

“Hmm.” Tania jotted something down in his chart, then pulled up a rolling stool.

“Okay, Eric, I’m going to ask you some stuff about your health in general and then you’re going to move to a different room. The nurse in there will take a blood sample,” she said as she sat.

Bitty stiffened and felt tears pricking at his eyes. This is what he was afraid of.

“He’s afraid of needles,” Lardo informed the nurse.

“And doctors. And hospitals. And getting checked on the ice,” Ransom added, and Lardo elbowed him.

Tania smiled sheepishly. “I’m afraid you can only avoid one of those today.”

Holster showed up then and, after he checked on Bitty, he and Ransom went back to the waiting room.

“Godspeed, my dude,” Holster said.

“We’ll be here if you need us,” Ransom added.

Once they were gone, Tania asked a bunch of questions, most of which, thankfully, Lardo answered for him, consulting notes she apparently kept on her phone. Bitty alternately answered questions and squeezed his eyes closed, trying to forget where he was, until Tania patted his shoulder gently.

“Okay, Eric, I’m all done with you here. I’m going to get you in a wheelchair and take you down the hall to an exam room where we’ll do a more detailed exam and see if we can figure out what’s going on.”

Bitty nodded and, with Lardo and Tania’s help, slowly moved over to the wheelchair an orderly pulled up next to the bed. As he sat he felt a sharp, shooting pain through his abdomen and cried out. Tears were coming freely now, and he clutched at his side and at Lardo’s hand.

Tania pushed him briskly down the hall, Lardo struggling to keep up on her short legs, and into a room with a gurney and more specialized equipment. She and an orderly lifted him onto the gurney and she felt his stomach again.

She looked worried as she prodded his abdomen, then the look was gone and she plastered on a gentle smile again.

“Okay honey, a doctor will be here very soon, just hold on,” she said, then practically ran from the room. Bitty could barely breathe through the pain and worry, and the edges of his vision were getting fuzzier and fuzzier.

It seemed like only a few seconds before a stocky young man in scrubs came through the door. He introduced himself as a doctor but Bitty forgot his name immediately. He swiftly checked his chart and felt Bitty’s stomach for himself, then pulled up a complicated-looking machine with a screen.

“Eric, I’m going to do an ultrasound on your abdomen. This could be appendicitis, and if it is we need to know ASAP.”

Bitty nodded and pressed his hands to his eyes, then put them down when he found he could barely hold them up. His limbs were getting heavier and hard to move and it seemed like everything was slowing down. The edges of his vision were getting darker and he could hear his heart pounding in his head, feel his pulse in his eyes, and if he could have thought anything at all before unconsciousness took over he would have wished to be safe in his mama’s arms far from here.


	2. Not the Flu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for hospitals, doctors, needles, mentions of death, and Lardo crying

“Eric……….” 

Bitty furrowed his brow. He couldn’t quite tell where the voice was coming from, or who it was, but he decided that he’d much rather sleep than find out. He was so tired. 

“Eric.” 

The voice was clearer this time, and unfamiliar. 

“Bitty. Hey. Bits.” 

A second voice, louder, closer. It was Lardo, he could tell without opening his eyes. 

“You gotta wake up, Bits,” Lardo continued, and Bitty reluctantly opened his eyes. 

A couple of things had changed since he had passed out in the emergency room. There was an IV in his arm. He tried not to think about that. A plastic hospital wristband had been fastened to his left wrist. He was laying down flat instead of propped up, too. And he was covered in a cold sweat and trembling faintly.

For the most part, though, the scene was the same. The young doctor was still there, as was Lardo. She was still holding Bitty’s hand, and was biting her lip with worry. His stomach still felt like it was being stabbed by a lacrosse player with a grudge. Actually, maybe now it was a Yale defenseman upset about their recent loss. 

The doctor smiled when he opened his eyes and blinked a few times in the bright light. He was standing to Bitty’s right. 

“Good to have you back, Eric,” the doctor said. He began checking Bitty out, listening to his heart and lungs and checking his eyes with a penlight and taking his blood pressure. 

Once he was done, he pulled up a stool and clapped his hands together. 

“While you were out we got your IV started, as you’ve probably noticed,” he gestured to Bitty’s arm, and Bitty winced and tried not to look but did anyway, “but I also went ahead and did an ultrasound of your abdomen. We’re still waiting on your blood test results, but your ultrasound was enough for a preliminary diagnosis.” 

Lardo squeezed Bitty’s hand tighter, and when he looked she stared straight ahead, but he could tell she had tears in her eyes. Oh Lord. It was bad, then. 

“You do have appendicitis,” the doctor said. “And it’s pretty far along. Which means we need to get you into surgery pretty soon so your appendix doesn’t rupture.” 

Bitty squeezed his eyes closed and pulled his hand free from Lardo’s. He clenched his fists and bit his lip and tried to ground himself so he wouldn’t drown in the panic that threatened his consciousness again. He tried to breathe evenly, but his breath hitched in his chest and tears started to fall.

"The problem we're running into here is that your fever is very high, and if we operate _now_ the risk of complications is higher," he heard, and it did nothing to soothe him. Quite the opposite. 

He was going to die. He knew it. He was going to die with only Lardo and a stranger, whose name he didn’t remember, with him. 

Did his mom even know? Did she know that she had already seen her only child for the last time? 

When he could breathe again, he asked, “my mom?” 

Lardo nodded. “I had Ransom and Holster call your parents when I found out.” 

Bitty nodded. So his mom knew. 

The doctor stood and came closer. He smiled reassuringly. 

“Eric, I know this is really scary. But we’ve caught it in time. You’re going to be okay.” 

Bitty nodded but didn’t believe him. 

“Okay,” the doctor said, and then patted his shoulder gently. “I’m going to send you up to the patient rooms to be admitted, and then a surgeon and anesthesiologist will meet you to talk about the surgery. Sound good?” 

“Not really,” Bitty said quietly. The doctor laughed and Bitty smiled faintly. 

“I’ve got to see some other patients, but someone will be in to help you upstairs. It was nice to meet you, Eric, despite the circumstances. Nice to meet you too, Larissa,” he said as he left. 

“Thanks, Dr. Cole,” Lardo said. 

When they were alone Bitty let out a shaky breath. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, his voice thick. 

“Seconded,” Lardo muttered. 

“How long was I out?” he asked, and Lardo cracked a little smile. 

“Like, half an hour. After he decided being unconscious wasn't hurting you, he did the ultrasound so you’d stay still or whatever, and I suggested getting the IV in and blood samples out while  _ you _ were out because of your phobia,” she explained. 

Bitty smiled gratefully at her. “Thank you.” 

She shrugged, but her nonchalant expression didn't quite reach her eyes. “It's my job.” 

The reality of the situation hit him again and he rubbed at his eyes, which were threatening tears at any second. “Oh, Jesus.” 

“Hey. Listen. You heard him, didn't you?” Lardo asked, prying one hand from his face and holding it firmly. “We caught it in time. You're going to be okay.” 

Bitty took a deep, shaky breath. “But what if I'm not?” he whispered. 

Lardo was silent for a minute. “Then we’ll figure out how to bake our own pies. But that's  _ not going to happen.” _

Bitty nodded, the tears in his eyes clouding his vision, and took another deep breath. His mind was so jumbled and panicky he wasn’t entirely sure he’d keep breathing if he didn’t pay attention to his breaths. 

Lardo smiled faintly, and then studied him. Her expression dropped to a serious one and she put her hands on the gurney next to him. 

“Now,” she said, suddenly down to business. “Would you care to tell me where you got Jack’s shirt?” 

Bitty froze. He looked down at the shirt which said “Samwell University Athletics” in a loopy white font on faded red fabric. His mind raced and he cracked a fake smile, hoping it was convincing. 

“Is this his? I just found it one day,” he lied. 

“It’s his. He’s the only one I’ve seen wearing that design. It was discontinued after his freshman year, and Shits and Johnson never got one, either,” Lardo explained. She narrowed her eyes and studied him some more. 

Suddenly her eyes widened. 

“You’re dating Jack,” she exclaimed. 

Bitty laughed nervously, his stomach almost forgotten. “Jack’s not even gay! And he’s--we’re not--I don’t even think he…..”

He sighed and put his head in his hands. “Fine, I am dating Jack.”

Lardo stepped back with her mouth hanging open and her eyes excited. “I knew it! Bits! That’s great!” 

“We were being so careful,” he whispered. 

Lardo let out a little laugh, shaking her head. “You were?” she asked sarcastically. 

Bitty glared at her, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was just happy that someone besides him and Jack knew. He was getting tired of being a secret. 

“Listen, Lards, you can’t tell  _ anyone _ . Not even Shitty. Especially Shitty,” he corrected himself. “It’s Jack’s career on the line, and he’s not out at all, and it would just--”

“Hey, no, don’t worry Bits, your secret is safe with me,” Lardo said, serious again. 

Bitty sighed, relaxing. “Thanks, Lards. For everything.” 

Lardo punched him on the shoulder gently. “It’s my job, bruh.” 

His mind no longer occupied, once again it focused on the pain in his abdomen, and he shifted, trying to get in a better position. 

“What’s it feel like?” Lardo asked, moving to sit in the doctor’s stool. 

“Like one of the Yale guys is a witch and cursed me to have an invisible knife in my stomach after we destroyed them last game,” Bitty said quickly, and Lardo blinked. 

“Man, you had that ready to go,” she said. 

Bitty shrugged and winced as the movement hurt. 

Just then the door opened and a couple of orderlies and nurse Tania came in. 

“Hi hon,” she said. “Heard you’re getting admitted.” 

He nodded. “Appendicitis,” he explained as the orderlies began moving the gurney he was laying on. 

She shook her head. “I knew it. We’re going up to the 4th floor to get you admitted. Your friends in the waiting room can come with us or meet us up there.” 

“I’ll let them know,” Lardo said, pulling out her phone. 

Bitty was wheeled down the hall to an elevator, then up to the fourth floor and right into a hospital room. There were two beds, but both were empty. The orderlies lifted him from the gurney onto the bed closest to the window as easily as if he had been made of styrofoam, and then left. 

Ransom and Holster showed up right around the time Bitty was finishing up the paperwork Tania brought him to fill out. They milled around the room, opening drawers and poking at the medical equipment until Lardo snapped at them to sit because they were making her nervous, at which point they asked a passing nurse if they could steal an extra chair from the empty room next door, and they sat with their phones out. 

When the anesthesiologist and surgeon showed up, Lardo excused herself to make a phone call. Bitty assumed it was to the coaches or his parents. 

The surgeon was very kind and made Bitty feel comfortable, even as she discussed things that scared the shit out of him, like the prospect of his appendix rupturing, causing infection to spread throughout his abdomen, and eventually killing him if they didn’t get it under control. The anesthesiologist was a bland, mousy-looking man who did  _ not  _ make him feel better about being drugged and unconscious for several hours in a hospital. 

The surgery was planned for 6 o’clock sharp the next morning. Bitty tried not to cry as the surgeon finished her preparations and left, saying she’d see him in the morning and not to worry. 

After they left, a nurse brought him a gown and told him to put it on. Holster helped him to the bathroom and into the gown, which was soft but not particularly comfortable. 

While Holster helped him back into bed, Lardo came back in. 

“I called your parents to check in with them. They’re at the Atlanta airport now, waiting to board, and they should be here late tonight.” Lardo paused and looked at Ransom and Holster before coming close to Bitty and lowering her voice. “I also called Jack.”

Bitty just nodded, too tired to really respond. Just walking to and from the bathroom had drained what little energy he had left. On top of the fatigue, the pain was making him woozy, and if he stayed awake he’d probably have to think about the surgery more. 

“I’m gonna sleep,” Bitty muttered. 

Lardo nodded as she plugged in his phone next to his bed. “Good plan. I’m gonna hang until your parents get here, and I’m sending the boys home to get your stuff. Anything you want them to grab?” 

Bitty nodded. “My laptop, and some comfy pajamas,” he said, and then, after a short internal debate, “and my stuffed rabbit.” 

“That’s mad cute, Bits,” Ransom said without looking up from his phone. 

“Leave me alone, I'm sick,” Bitty whined. 

One of the nurses came in and eyed Bitty’s visitors. 

“Visiting hours are over, kids. I'm going to have to ask you to leave,” he said, pulling a syringe from his pocket. 

“The two of us were just leaving,” Holster said, standing and stuffing his hands in his pockets awkwardly. 

Bitty panicked at the thought of being alone in the hospital and gestured to Lardo. “Can she stay? My parents won't get here until late and I don't want to be by myself,” he said, anxiety giving his voice a wild edge. 

The nurse pursed his lips. 

“I can sit in the waiting room if you prefer,” Lardo offered. 

The nurse sighed. “You can stay. But only until his parents get here.” 

Lardo smiled and sat in the chair next to Bitty’s bed. “Will you bring me my phone charger and a hoodie from the Haus?” she asked the boys. 

“Yup,” Holster said, making to leave. “See you later, Bits. You'll probably be asleep when I get back with your stuff, so, good luck with the surgery and everything.” 

Ransom came over and kissed Bitty’s forehead, then wrinkled his nose. “You're all sweaty, nasty.” He wiped his mouth and then patted him on the shoulder. “We’ll come visit once we’re allowed to,” he promised. 

Bitty smiled at them weakly as they left, then turned his weary attention to the nurse. 

“What's that?” he asked, pointing to the syringe in his hand. 

“Medicine to lessen your pain and help you sleep,” the nurse said, and Bitty tried so hard not to flinch when he went to put the meds through his IV, even though there was no needle on it. 

“You have good friends,” the nurse said, smiling a little as he disposed of the syringe. 

Bitty smiled. “Yeah, they're great.” 

“Feeling it yet?” the nurse asked, and Bitty blinked, his eyes not focusing how he wanted them to. He nodded and the nurse helped him put the head of his bed down until he lay almost flat. The pain in his stomach lessened quickly until he barely noticed it. 

“Night, Bits,” Lardo said. 

“Night, Lards,” Bitty muttered as he drifted off.

 

* * *

 

It seemed like only seconds later he was roughly woken up. He was too disoriented to figure out what or who had woken him up, but through bleary eyes he could see one possibility: several people in the room clamoring around, talking quickly and looking at monitors and reading his chart and at least two doing something to him. The other possibility was the searing pain in his stomach, further clouding his mind and making him involuntarily curl into the fetal position, whimpering and fighting for each breath. 

Fear and pain warred in his head for his attention. He gasped and fought to keep from drowning in the terror that overtook him the instant he awoke. He whimpered, tears streaming down his face. 

Someone was talking to him, he realized halfway through their sentence. He squinted up and saw that it was the nurse who had given him the meds earlier, talking down at him as he adjusted Bitty’s bed. 

“—surgery now. Your appendix could have ruptured. The surgeon you met with won't be here in time, so Dr. Freeney in the trauma OR will be operating on you,” he said, and Bitty nodded as best as he could. 

He was terrified, but he was frankly more afraid of dying than of hospitals and doctors. So if he had to have surgery  _ right now _ , at least it would probably keep him alive. 

The fact that he thought the word “probably” rattled him, and as he lay there it got louder and louder in his head. He  _ probably _ wouldn't die.  _ Probably.  _

He tried to look around for his mother, but he couldn't see half the room, as he was curled up on his side. 

The nurse started to move away, but Bitty’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. “Mom,” he whispered, desperation leaking into his voice. 

The nurse’s eyes softened and he crouched down so he was eye-level with Bitty. 

“Your parents still aren't here yet. You were only asleep for a couple of hours,” he explained in a soft voice. “Your friend is in the waiting room, but I can have someone go get her.” 

Bitty nodded, starting to shake all over. Staying conscious took almost too much effort and his head swam. 

The nurse told one of the orderlies to go get Lardo and then turned back to him. “I'm going to stay right here until they take you down to surgery, unless you want me to leave, okay?” 

Bitty nodded, too tired to even properly cry, so the tears just fell out of his eyes unimpeded. 

Lardo came rushing in and immediately knelt next to the nurse at Bitty’s side. 

“Hey, bro,” she whispered, eyes too full of concern to convey the nonchalance she usually displayed. “I'm here.”

“It hurts,” Bitty whimpered. 

“I know,” Lardo whispered, blotting his eyes with a tissue someone handed her. “But they're going to knock you out real soon and then it won't hurt for a while,” she said, smiling gently. 

Bitty just nodded, in too much pain to pay attention to her joke. 

“I got off the phone with your mom a few minutes ago. They just landed in Boston and they’ll be here soon. Shitty is driving them up, and you know how fast he drives,” she said. 

Bitty just shook, now too scared and in too much pain to even react. He was honestly surprised he was still conscious. 

He became aware of the other people in the room surrounding him, and his eyes wandered until he saw a gurney being pushed through the door. 

The nurse squeezed his hand and stood up. “Eric, we’re going to lift you onto this so we can get you down to surgery.” 

Three of them lifted him over and then the nurse and Lardo were at his side again. 

“Time to go,” the nurse said softly. “Say goodbye for now.” 

Lardo squeezed his arm, looking like she was about to cry. “Good luck. Love you, Bits.” 

“Bye. Love you too,” Bitty whispered. 

Lardo leaned over and kissed his forehead and the gurney started moving. Bitty closed his eyes as lights flashed past over his head as they pushed him quickly down the hall. 

A few minutes later, a handful of people wearing face masks and scrubs put a mask over his nose and mouth and, judging by the shock of something cold through his arm, some medication through his IV. They told him to count backwards from ten and as he did he felt himself moving again, thinking about how he might not wake up.

He only got to four before he stopped thinking altogether.

 

* * *

 

He drifted in and out of consciousness several times before really waking up, and each time he barely had time to open his eyes before he was pulled under again, much less remember where he was and why. 

These little awakenings were like snapshots, a moment or two observed without any context. 

_ A long room, too bright, his father pacing near the foot of the bed, his mother sitting in a chair nearby, distractedly biting her nail. He stirs and his mother sits forward, saying something. Her words are swallowed by the darkness as he gets pulled back under.  _

_ A different room, dimmer, his mother standing at the window, fiddling with her necklace and staring, unseeing, outside. His father in the chair at his side, hands clasped firmly together with his elbows on his knees, lost in thought. His father shifts his weight and he is pulled under.  _

_ The same room, lighter this time, his mother with her back to him in the doorway, arguing quietly with someone just outside. His father, shoulders squared just behind her, his face red as he turns away and his step towards the window is interrupted by swirling darkness.  _

_ Lighter still, his mother and a man in a white coat looking at a clipboard at the foot of his bed. His father, leaning back in his chair, head dangling, arms crossed, snoring lightly. His mother and the man look up and see him looking at them and both smile. He manages to stay conscious long enough for his mother to take a couple steps closer, but he’s back out before she reaches him. _

And finally, 

_ Darker now, his mother reading in one chair, his father dozing in another, and gentle pressure on his hand makes him turn his head. Someone with short dark hair is resting their head on the edge of his bed, both their big hands holding one of his, their torso slumped forward and lower body perched in a third chair. Bitty stirs, and Jack lifts his head and smiles, his eyes already welling with tears. “Hey,” he whispers, squeezing Bitty’s hand gently.  _


	3. Dear God I Wish It Was the Flu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for hospitals, doctors, needles, medication, homophobia, blood, and mentions of food, death, sexual activity, and alcohol

Bitty awoke quietly, his dry eyes sliding open to a serene hospital room: the room was completely empty except for Jack, who sat slumped back in an uncomfortable-looking chair, reading a book. Through the window to the right of his bed he could see dim light, but whether it was dawn or dusk he didn't know. 

His head swam without even moving and his entire existence felt fuzzy, and he lifted up a hand to see if it was real. It was heavy and mostly solid, and since he couldn't see through it he felt satisfied that his hands at least were real. 

Jack noticed his shift and put down the book and leaned forward, taking the hand Bitty had lifted and was still staring at, and it took Bitty a second to refocus his eyes on Jack. 

“Hello, sleepyhead,” Jack murmured, and Bitty smiled. 

“Hi,” he rasped, then squinted, knowing something was wrong with his voice but not knowing how to fix it. His mind at current was like a pile of leaves being blown apart by a leaf blower, and he didn’t know which leaf would tell him how to fix his throat. 

“Want some water?” Jack asked, and it clicked into place. Water. That's how to fix raspy throats. 

Jack helped him take a sip of water, and it felt wonderful. He sighed and his eyes slipped closed. He felt his mind getting fuzzier and he forced himself to open his eyes, not wanting to go back to sleep just yet. He wanted to talk to Jack. 

“What time’sit,” he mumbled, blinking to try to clear his eyes, but he couldn't do anything very quickly and with each blink he felt himself falling back asleep. 

“About eight in the morning,” Jack said. Bitty’s brow furrowed in confusion. 

“I was gonna… have surgery?” Bitty drawled. 

Jack smiled. “You already did. It took about two hours and you’ve been asleep ever since. You have a tube in your stomach to drain all the infected stuff out, but they got most of it in the surgery,” he said. 

Something occurred to Bitty and he looked around the room. 

“Where's… people?” he asked, gesturing with his free hand and hoping Jack understood that he couldn't remember who exactly he was asking about. 

Jack, to his credit, seemed to understand. “Your mom and dad went to get some coffee and a bite to eat. Lardo went home after you got out of surgery. Shitty stayed from the time he and your parents got here until you got out, too. Everyone else is doing their thing, but they send their love,” he listed off slowly. 

Bitty had to take a second to process all that, and another to grow concerned. 

“What about… Jack? My parents? They don't know we’re…?” 

Jack let out a tiny sigh. “They know now.” 

Bitty’s eyes widened. “Are they…?” 

Jack shook his head. “They haven't said much about it. I think they were too worried. Your father hasn't really talked to me since I got here and told him, but your mom hugged me and is still talking to me.” 

Bitty nodded slowly. Well. Now he was out to his parents, it seemed. And all it took was a ruptured appendix. 

Jack squeezed his hand and kissed the back of it. “We’ll be alright. The worst part is over.” 

Bitty nodded and frowned. Something was off, but he didn't know what. 

“Is something wrong, cherie?” Jack asked. 

“I don't know.” He frowned towards the foot of his bed until it hit him. “What day is it?” he asked. 

“Saturday morning, why?” 

Bitty narrowed his eyes at Jack. “You have a game today.” 

Jack shook his head. “The Falcs are playing without me.” 

Bitty’s eyes widened. “You can't do that!” 

“I can. I am. I talked to George and Coach Bartley in private right after I found out you were here and I'm excused for this game.” 

Bitty blinked. “Jack, your  _ career _ . What if they… I can't believe you… For  _ me…” _

Jack’s eyes became fierce and he leaned closer and squeezed Bitty’s hand harder with both of his. 

“Bits. Bitty.  _ You're  _ more important. You almost died and I couldn't—” 

He cut himself off and squeezed his eyes shut. He dropped his head and let out a long, shaky breath. 

Bitty’s mind was racing, and in its current drug haze that race was very slow and disorienting, so it took him several seconds to process Jack's words.

“I almost died?” 

Jack raised his head. “Maybe. I just know that I read—I mean, I don't want to scare you. But a ruptured appendix… It could have killed you if they waited too long or the surgeon didn't do a good job or—” 

He cut himself off again. 

“But you didn't. You're alive, and you're going to be okay. Don't… Don't let me scare you,” he said firmly, more of a self-directed chastisement than an instruction for Bitty. 

Bitty nodded, not knowing what to say or how to comfort him. 

Jack let go of his hand and scrubbed at his face. “I'm sorry, cherie. I didn't sleep. I was so worried.” 

Bitty stayed silent for a minute and let Jack breathe while he slowly gathered his thoughts. 

“Lardo knows about us,” he said, and Jack put down his hands. He didn't look surprised. 

“I know. She was the one who called me to tell me you were in the hospital. Even though I already knew and was trying to get out of Providence to come up here,” Jack said. 

“How did you know?” 

Jack chuckled. “Group text. Ransom and Holster told everyone once you were admitted.” 

Bitty sighed. 

“How did Lards find out?” Jack asked. 

“I was wearing your tshirt when she and the boys took me to the emergency room.” 

Jack blinked. 

“She figured it out just like that?” 

Bitty nodded. “Lardo is scary smart.” 

Jack let out a tiny laugh. “She is.” 

The door to Bitty’s hospital room opened and his mother peeked around it, eyes lighting up when she saw him. Coach came through after her and smiled, too. His mother came over and pulled up a chair on his other side, then reached up to smooth his hair. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” she cooed, and he leaned into her hand. 

“Hi, mama,” he said. 

“How’re you doing?” she asked, and he knew from experience that that was her nurse tone. Coach wandered around aimlessly in the far side of the room. 

He shrugged. “Tired. Fuzzy.” 

She hummed and looked at her watch. She still wore her brightly patterned scrubs from her shift in the pediatrics ward of the county hospital. Madison was too small for its own hospital, so the community was served by a couple of physicians and a mid-sized hospital ten miles from the town center. 

“How long has he been awake?” she asked Jack. 

“Ten, fifteen minutes,” Jack answered. 

Bitty interrupted the next question out of his mother’s mouth. “When can I go home?”

“They wanna keep you for at least two more days after today, maybe three, just to make sure you don't have any problems from the surgery,” she answered. 

“When can people come visit?” 

She smiled. “Monday, but they gotta be on their  _ best behavior _ ,” she said pointedly, winking at Jack, who smiled. 

“ _ I _ certainly can't control Shitty,” he said, holding his hands up and chuckling. “Can you?” 

Bitty nodded. “She got him to wear pants one time.” 

Jack’s eyebrows raised. “Impressive,” he said. 

Bitty shrugged. “He’s powerless against moms.” 

They both laughed, Jack agreeing and his mother chattering about Mr. Crappy being a good kid, if a little forward.

 

* * *

 

What no one tells you about being in the hospital is that you will be so bored you’ll eventually start making up games to play by yourself or with whoever is also bored in your room (if you’re conscious, that is). 

Bitty slept through most of Saturday, but the few hours he spent awake were soul-crushingly boring. The boys had brought him his laptop as promised, but there was nowhere to comfortably put it without pulling some tubes or pressing on his stomach, so it stayed in his bag all day. Instead, he and his parents chatted for a while, Jack napping on the still-unoccupied other bed. After an hour or two, Jack woke up and he and Bitty somehow convinced them to go find a cheap hotel and get in a few hours’ sleep. When they left, Bitty’s mother hugged him as tightly as she dared, then called “I love you”s and “call me if you need me”s over her shoulder as Coach steered her out of the room. 

Taking advantage of their absence, Bitty snoozed for a couple hours, then awoke to find Jack biting his thumbnail and looking at something on his phone. 

“What’s that?” he asked. Jack looked up and then scooted closer so Bitty could see the screen. 

“The game,” Jack replied. He was watching a livestream of the Falconers’ game, the sound turned off. Bitty squinted at the screen until he located the score panel, then winced. 

“Oh Lord.” 

“Tater’s playing horribly. Thirdy actually came close to scoring for the Sabres, and that guy right there, number 17, checked Deller into the boards so hard a fan on the other side fell.” Jack’s brows were drawn together so tightly that a crease lingered when Bitty reached up to smooth his hair and he relaxed some. 

“Turn that off, it’s just stressing you out,” Bitty murmured. Jack looked conflicted, and Bitty nodded. “You can check after the game. There’s nothing you can do about it from here.” 

Jack sighed and put it away. They sat in silence for a few minutes, both trying to think of something to do. 

“I’m bored,” Bitty whined finally, hoping Jack had some ideas. 

“Me too,” Jack agreed, and Bitty sighed loudly. 

“You could study,” Jack suggested, and Bitty made a face at him. 

“I had emergency surgery less than 24 hours ago and you want me to do homework,” he deadpanned. 

Jack grinned. “At least you’re feeling more like yourself,” he teased. 

“You’re not helping.” 

“You could turn on the tv,” Jack said. 

“I did earlier when you were napping. There’s, like, five channels and they’re all horrible.” 

“You could nap.”

“I just woke up.” 

This went on for several minutes, Jack suggesting activities and Bitty shooting them down for one reason or another, until Jack ran out of legitimate suggestions and started making things up. Bitty kept shooting down his suggestions, trying to keep a straight face. 

“You could....” Jack paused, thinking. “You could go rock climbing with Dwayne ‘the Rock’ Johnson.” 

“He won’t return my calls ever since I stole his pasta maker,” Bitty giggled. 

“You could start a pan flute band with the original members of KISS.” 

“I can only play the ukulele.”

“You could trek to the North Pole wearing a spacesuit.”

“I don’t believe in Santa anymore.” 

“You could convince Shitty to wear pants when he comes to visit.” 

“There’s not a soul on earth could do that.” 

“You could learn mixed martial arts.” 

“I just had  _ emergency surgery,  _ I can’t even get out of this bed.” 

“You already used that one!” Jack exclaimed, laughing. 

Eventually Bitty’s stomach pain stopped their game. He hit the nurse call button and Patrick, the nurse who had been on duty the night before when he got whisked off to surgery, came in and gave him another dose of pain medication. 

Before Bitty was pulled under, Jack kissed his forehead, then nose, then lips, and as he fell asleep he felt a gentle, warm pressure around his hand. 

He didn’t wake up until late the next morning. Jack was gone and his parents were there. His father explained that Jack had gone to the Haus to shower, eat, and nap for a bit, but he’d be back. 

While Jack was gone, a doctor came in and checked on him. She explained that once he was released from the hospital he was to take it very easy for two weeks, and then slowly (“slooooowly,” she repeated) work back up to his normal level of activity. Before she left she looked at his incision and gave the okay for his nurses to remove his drainage tube. With that gone, Bitty felt freer and considerably less gross. 

His stomach still ached, perhaps even more after the tube was gone, and he was still incredibly bored, so he was nothing but grateful when his medications made him drowsy and he could sleep for a while. 

What no one tells you about being in the hospital is that any and all fear of doctors, needles, and hospitals will eventually die down because any distraction from the mind-numbing boredom will actually become welcome. 

On Sunday evening, once Jack had returned and his parents went down to the cafeteria for a bite to eat, Nurse Patrick came in to check on Bitty. 

“You getting hungry yet?” Patrick asked as he fiddled with the settings on Bitty’s IV pump. 

Bitty shrugged, thinking about the beautiful tray of rubbery chicken, overcooked mixed vegetables, slightly runny mashed potatoes, and green jello he’d been delivered earlier that evening. “Not really. I ate some jello earlier, though,” he offered, and Patrick smiled. 

“That’s good, at least. What’s going on with your hand there?” he asked, pointing to the hand with Bitty’s IV. His skin was red and itchy around the tape and Bitty had been trying to leave it alone but occasionally caught himself absentmindedly scratching. 

“No idea, but it’s itchy.” 

Patrick took a look at it and started taking off the tape. 

“You might be allergic to the adhesive in the tape. Let’s move your IV and try a different tape. Sound good?” he asked, and a brief note of panic shot through Bitty’s stomach. 

He hummed anxiously. “I guess.” 

Jack held his free hand as Patrick removed the IV and replaced it in his forearm. Somehow, Bitty was able to watch with only the slightest moment of panic when a small trickle of blood appeared as the IV slid out, but Patrick didn’t seem worried and taped a cotton ball over the site. 

When it was over, Bitty let out a shaky breath and smiled. He was actually becoming okay with needles. 

“Good job, kid,” Patrick said with a grin as he cleaned up. He left and then a moment later popped his head back in. “You’ve got a blood draw scheduled for first thing in the morning,” he said, and left again. 

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, Bitty’s only distractions being Jack and the promise that everyone could visit the next day. But Jack left at ten and went to the Haus, promising to bring everyone the next morning once visiting hours started. Then Bitty was left alone, his parents also having left to get some sleep. 

He’d gotten up to walk around earlier that day, and a lap around his small wing of the hospital, leaning heavily on Jack’s arm, was painful and exhausting enough that he slept for six hours afterwards. Now, with no one to distract him and nothing to do, he wanted nothing more than to be able to get up and go exploring by himself. 

He stayed put, though, not wanting to use the walker next to the bed  _ and _ have to figure out how to drag along his IV pole. He debated hitting the nurse call button just so he could chat with Patrick or whoever else came in, but he held off when he heard someone else on his floor hit their call button. 

Eventually he started imagining the other people in the rooms surrounding them and making up their stories. 

The guy in the next room, who had a bad cough, was Tom, and he was an accountant by day and stripper by night. His roommate was Franco, and was in the hospital because he tried to get out of work and really needed to sell it because his company was going through a difficult merger and his boss would have his head if he was found to be faking, so he paid off a friend who was a hospital administrator. Joke’s on him, though, because Tom’s pneumonia was contagious, and Franco’s fake coughs had started to become real. 

His other neighbors were Angela, a dangerously hungover Samwell student with a dark secret, and Irma, a middle aged Swedish woman getting titanium rods put in her ankle (bear attack). 

Bitty lost interest in his own game when he looked at the other bed, still rumpled from Jack napping there, and then at the empty room. He felt a pang of loneliness pierce through his heavy boredom. He sighed and lay back, putting the head of his bed down and staring up at the ceiling and the various monitors and valves above him and on the wall. 

He actually wished he had his schoolwork. That’s how bored he was. If he couldn’t have company, he would willingly study. 

Since he had no one to talk to and none of his schoolwork with him, he tried to remember the sequence of events of Hercules’ labors, because he knew it would be on his history midterm whenever he took it. 

He was apparently more tired than he thought, because he fell asleep in the middle of telling himself the story of Hercules defeating the Hydra. 

He awoke the next morning to his mother gently nudging him awake. 

“Dicky, baby, it’s time for your blood draw,” she murmured in her most soothing nurse voice. 

Bitty groaned and waved her away. “Noooo,” he mumbled, voice trailing off. 

“Eric Richard Bittle,” she said, and he froze hearing his full name, “you don’t  _ have  _ to wake up but you do have to get blood drawn. I just assumed you wanted to be awake for it.”

Bitty squinted up at her. She had her hands on her hips and her eyebrows raised, and he quickly woke himself up. 

There was a young technician at the foot of his bed, holding supplies and looking between him and his mother hesitantly. Bitty eyed her mistrustfully, then looked back at his mother. He saw his father behind her in the corner reading his Kindle, his glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose. 

“Can you do it, mama?” Bitty asked nervously. 

His mother blinked and looked at the technician, who looked doubtful. 

“She’s a nurse,” Bitty said by way of explanation. 

The tech hesitated, then headed for the door. “I’ll check with the shift nurse.” 

After a minute she was back with a tray of supplies, which she handed over to Bitty’s mother, then stood leaning against the doorframe to wait. 

His mother found his vein and filled three vials in record time, and Bitty felt a wave of relief as she taped a cotton ball over the site and untied the tourniquet. 

He covered his eyes and tried to breathe evenly, and his mother rubbed his back after passing off the vials and supplies to the technician, who excused herself and left. 

“This is the calmest I’ve ever seen you with any kind of needles,” his mama commented. 

Still holding his hands over his eyes, he laughed shakily. “The other day Chowder checked my blood sugar and I near fainted,” he said. 

His mother chuckled and he heard a scraping sound across the floor as she moved her chair. 

“What a way to start your day,” she said. “I’m sorry sweetheart.” 

Bitty took his hands off of his eyes and smiled at her, not quite genuine, but considering his phobia, it was a lot more real than either of them expected. 

“I’ll be okay.”

She crossed her legs and started counting off things on her fingers. 

“Well, let’s see. Visiting hours start at ten, and last I heard most everyone is coming up to see you today. We should get your labs back right quick, they’ve got good ones here. Then this afternoon, probably around four, Dr. Henderson wants to look at you again. And then if she likes what she sees she’ll turn you loose first thing in the morning.” She smiled big at Bitty, who thanked everything he believed in that his mother was a wonderful nurse, that he was going home soon, that he’d get to see everyone today, that he wasn’t dead. 

“What time is it now?” he asked once he could speak without crying in gratitude. Emotions were a bit tough on the medications he was still getting through his IV. 

His mom glanced at her watch, which she wore on the inside of her wrist. “Close to seven.” 

Bitty groaned. “It’s so  _ early _ .” 

His mom laughed. “You can go back to sleep. I’ll letcha. And I can wake you up right before visiting hours start.” 

So he did. He dozed off easily, waking up a couple of times when nurses came in to check his temperature or something or other, but he was used to that by now and it never took him long to fall back asleep. 

At a quarter to ten his father woke him up, his mother having gone for coffee and run into a long line in the cafeteria. 

Bitty slowly sat up, acutely aware that he hadn’t been alone (and awake) with Coach since he’d found out about him and Jack. 

His father sat back in his chair, starting to pick up his book again. Bitty chewed at his lip for just a second, then took a deep breath and cleared his throat. His father looked up over his reading glasses. 

“I wanted to ask you,” Bitty started, then nearly lost his nerve, “what you think about Jack.” 

Coach raised his eyebrows and took off his glasses and shifted in his seat. 

“Well.” He didn’t speak for a long moment, and the silence was deafening. 

“He’s a good kid, I knew that before,” Coach said, and Bitty’s anxiety quieted some. “He’s been… Very helpful. And he’s been worrying about you a hell of a lot.” 

“He does that,” Bitty said with a nervous laugh. 

His father was quiet, thinking. Then he met Bitty’s eyes and his gaze was unexpectedly intense. It always was. 

“He’s good to you?” 

Bitty nodded. “The best,” he whispered. 

“You’re happy?” 

Bitty considered his answer, then felt a smile growing on his face. “I am.” 

Coach nodded, his face looking grim, and the smile dropped off Bitty’s face instantly. “I’m not sure about all this just yet. But I’m not… against it.” 

Bitty let out a shaky breath. 

“Okay.” 

His father smiled a little cheekily. “Anything else big you want to tell me or can I get back to my book?” 

Bitty sighed and diverted his gaze. “Yeah. Coach, I… I don’t like country music!” he exclaimed with mock-seriousness, and bit his fist dramatically. 

His father snorted. “Son, I’ve known that since you were ten goddamn years old. I just thought you’d grow up to be a geek or something.” He paused. “Don’t, ah. Don’t tell your mother I cursed.” 

Bitty laughed. “Your secret’s safe with me.” 

He passed the time until Jack and everyone else showed up by flipping through the five channels on his room’s tv. Predictably, nothing interesting was on. 

Luckily his mother showed up with coffee soon after, and not long after  _ that _ Jack showed up looking overwhelmed. He heard snickers and shushing coming from the hallway. 

“So,” he began, looking like he could barely keep a secret, “I tried to scrounge up some people to come see you because I know you’re lonely, but it was so weird--”

“You’re a horrible liar, Jack,” Bitty interrupted, stifling a grin. 

“--it was so weird, I could  _ barely _ get  _ anyone  _ to come visit,” continued Jack like he’d never been interrupted. 

“That’s awful, don’t they know how lonely and bored I am?” Bitty asked, deciding to play along. 

“Yeah, so, this is everyone I could get to come.” He poked his head out the door. 

And the  _ entire hockey team _ rushed in. Lardo and Shitty were at the front with Jack, and they both got to Bitty before anyone else could, both pulling him into a tight hug until he tapped Shitty’s shoulder with a pained groan and he withdrew quickly. 

“Oh fuck, I’m sorry Bits,” Shitty cried, then shook his head and his big smile was back. “Bits! You’re okay! I was so worried!” 

It was like a receiving line at a wedding. Person after person came up, some in pairs, wanting to talk to him and ask him questions or tell him little things he’d missed at practice or in the Haus or in class. Chowder in particular chattered for nearly ten minutes before Ollie and Wicky pulled seniority and shunted him off to the side. Even the tadpoles had come, and Tango was in rare form, asking myriad questions, some of which had to do with medicine, so Bitty foisted him off on his mother. The boy could use a mom around anyway. Bitty knew he was getting homesick. 

Some had brought cards or little gifts. He received no fewer than six cards and four stuffed animals, in addition to a large bunch of balloons from Shitty and a bouquet of flowers from the frogs and tadpoles. 

Once everyone had a turn talking to Bitty, they all crowded around his bed and chattered to him at once. He laughed and tried to listen to everyone and answer every question but ended up dissolving into giggles when he got overwhelmed. 

“Hold on, hold on. Hold the fuck on. Quiet!” Shitty said loudly, finally getting everyone to shut up. 

He pointed an accusatory finger at Bitty. “How long have you been dating Jack Fucking Zimmermann?” 

Bitty grinned mischievously and Jack took his hand. Half the team gasped (the ones Bitty was less close to, mostly), and Ransom and Holster began hitting each other without looking, their mouths hanging open. 

“We  _ knew it _ !” Ransom exclaimed. “We fucking  _ knew _ it!” 

“How long, Bitty?” Tango spoke up, and Bitty smiled up at Jack. 

“Since graduation in May,” Jack said. 

“You fucking beauty!” Shitty yelled, and launched himself at Jack. A nurse rushed in to tell them to be quiet, and, seeing twenty-five people crowded into the small room, she made almost everyone go wait in the waiting room. 

“Five at a time,  _ maximum _ ,” she said firmly, shaking a finger at Bitty and glaring at Shitty before leaving. 

The only people left were Ransom, Holster, Lardo, Chowder, and Shitty, plus his parents and Jack. 

“We’re so happy for you guys,” Ransom said, and he looked like he was genuinely about to cry. 

“I didn’t even know you were gay, man,” Holster said to Jack, who blushed. 

“I’m not, I’m--”

“I did,” Shitty said, raising an eyebrow. 

They all balked at him. 

“You popped boners when we wrestled, like, half the time,” Shitty explained. 

Bitty snickered. Jack went white. 

“You thought I didn’t notice,” Shitty said with a shrug. “I didn’t want to bring it up. It’s your journey, my brother.” 

Jack slowly shook his head, a grin spreading across his face. “You’re a piece of work, Shits.” 

Shitty smiled cheekily. “I try. So you’re bi, then?” 

Jack nodded. “Something like that.” 

Bitty raised his eyebrow at Lardo. “Told you he’s not gay.” 

“He’s gay,” Holster said, and Ransom nodded in agreement. 

“Maybe not all the time,” Ransom added. 

“I’m gay sometimes,” Holster offered, and Ransom pointed at him. 

“That’s true. Me too.” 

After a while, another group took their place, and so on until everyone was ready to say goodbye. They trickled back in to hug Bitty before they left, and Tango asked for another autograph from Jack before he and Whiskey left. 

Then it was quiet for a couple hours. 

Dr. Henderson came, checked on him, and looked at his incision, before smiling warmly and saying he’d get to go home first thing the next morning. Bitty nearly cried out of sheer gratitude for her and everyone who had been kind to him in the hospital, but maybe it was just his medications. 

After she left he was visited, in short succession, by Coaches Hall and Murray, and then by Dr. Atley, his academic advisor. The coaches made polite conversation for a few minutes before getting down to business and discussing the rest of the season. He was allowed until the spring semester to recover, and then they’d evaluate whether he was back in shape enough to play. Bitty’s stomach knotted at the very real possibility that he’d never play in another college hockey match ever again, but he swallowed it and filed away the panic for later. 

Dr. Atley brought news that she had spoken to all of his professors and filled them in, as well as bargained for an extra week and a half until he’d need to take his midterm exams. She’d even somehow gotten the administration to hold off putting his grades into the system until then. Bitty’s mouth dropped open when she told him this, and his mother nearly wept at finding out how well her baby was being taken care of at school. 

“He’s one of my favorites,” Dr. Atley had told his mother, winking at him over her shoulder, and his mouth dropped open again. “Don’t tell my other advisees.” 

“Dr. Atley, I owe you… at least a dozen pies,” Bitty sputtered. 

She laughed. “Make it two loaves of banana bread and do well on your exams, and we’ll be even.”

 

* * *

 

Ransom handed him his oven mitts, his face carefully patient as Bitty cracked open the oven, squinted in, and grimaced. 

“Is it bad?” Holster asked from Bitty’s other side. 

“It’s not pretty,” Bitty said. 

“Quit leaning over like that, you’re making me nervous,” Ransom said, and Bitty made a face at him before opening the oven all the way. 

“You’re always nervous. I’m fine,” he reassured him. “The only thing that could hurt me from me standing like this has been removed from my body.” 

He carefully reached in and pulled out the maple pecan pie, the first thing he’d baked since his whole near-death-experience. He sat it carefully on the wire cooling rack that permanently stood on the kitchen table and studied it. 

The crust was crumbly and lumpy, not flaky and smooth like his better ones. The sugar in the syrup hadn’t completely caramelized, but the exposed pecans on top were in danger of burning if he left it in any longer. 

“Sit down, Bits, take it easy,” Lardo said from where she leaned on the doorjamb. 

Bitty did as he was told, having learned by now that it was usually better to just listen to Lardo, because she was always right when she spoke up, but generally didn’t speak up until she needed to. And she was right this time; he hadn’t noticed how tired and sore he was until he sat down in front of the pie, plates, and silverware. 

He’d been home from the hospital for four days. He was excused from his classes this week, because it was still midterms, so he’d been sleeping a lot in between making himself study for his actual midterm exams. His Hausmates had been steering him firmly away from the kitchen whenever he even looked like he was about to start baking or doing any cooking other than getting leftovers from the fridge and popping them in the microwave. 

Today, they’d finally let him bake, in celebration of them all surviving midterms, and in Bitty’s case, in celebration of surviving in general. 

Chowder quietly took some insulin while they waited for the pie to cool a little bit, but then got impatient. 

“Bitty, can I please cut the pie?” he asked, already picking up the pie server. 

Bitty waved a hand at it. “Have at it. It’s probably bad anyway.” 

“You’re so bitter,” Lardo said, joining them at the table. 

“Was that a pun on his name? If so, kudos,” Ransom said, and Lardo offered a fist bump with a smirk. 

In no time flat, Chowder had served them each pie. In the year he’d known Bitty he’d gone from a pie murderer to being able to cut and serve a perfect piece of pie, and Bitty felt a small pang of pride. His baby son, all grown up. 

“You first, Bits,” Holster said, handing him a fork. 

Bitty cautiously took a bite. It was hot, so the first bite was wasted by trying to swallow it as quickly as possible without also burning his throat. He didn’t even taste it. 

The second bite he was much more careful. When he thought it sufficiently cool he took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. 

It wasn’t like his usual maple pecan pies. It was less sweet, with the pecans retaining more of their original texture rather than getting chewy. The crust was an entirely different texture too, but not a bad one. 

“So?” Ransom asked. 

“It’s different,” Bitty said, not wanting them to form an opinion before tasting. “Try it.” 

They did, and Bitty anxiously watched their faces. Chowder, mouth still full of his first bite, stared at his pie with wide eyes. Ransom closed his eyes and sighed. 

“Bits. This pie is so fucking good,” Holster said, pointing to his plate with his fork. 

Bitty blinked. Lardo nodded silently, giving her approval. 

“You’re right, it is different,” Ransom said. “But not in a bad way.” 

“The crust needs work,” Lardo said, and Holster elbowed her, but Bitty nodded. He knew that. “But otherwise I think it’s the best pecan pie I’ve ever had.” 

Bitty smiled, feeling suddenly overcome with emotions. His eyes welled up and he sniffled and his Hausmates looked at him in alarm. 

“I love y’all so much,” he muttered, and covered his face in embarrassment. 

He heard the sound of four chairs scraping linoleum and felt all four of them hugging him at once, and he smiled into his hands. 

They always had his back. 


End file.
